


a bastard's present

by days4daisy



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Canon-Typical Height Difference Language, Extra Treat, First Kiss, Forests, Height Differences, Hurt/Comfort, Intoxication, M/M, Night, Season/Series 01, Trick or Treat: Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-07-18 12:05:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16118093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: "It’s hit me just how much you're sacrificing when we reach the Wall. A shame, really.”





	a bastard's present

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gonergone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonergone/gifts).



> Hope you enjoy this treat, gonergone :) Happy Halloween!

Jon wakes disoriented in the dead of night. Warmth lingers in his belly.

They are only a few days ride from the Wall. The trees this far north are bare of leaves, branches like spindly fingers bridged over a sky of stars. Their company now includes two convicts turned freemen. Thieves and rapists, the half-man said.

The heat of drink does Jon good; the night is cold even nestled beside a dying fire. Ghost reclines at Jon’s side, the wolf’s weight a steady presence.

Present company sleeps, save Uncle Benjen who sits as attentive to the elements as a dire wolf.

“This chill does not agree with you either, does it, bastard?” On the other side of a downed log, Jon finds a mop of gold hair and eyes slanted in amusement.

“Are you keeping your own watch, dwarf?” All pretense has fallen away with the queen’s brother, but Jon gets the sense Tyrion prefers it this way. He hears Tyrion’s amused snort, though he sits too short for Jon to see his full face.

“The northern climate does not favor me,” Tyrion drawls. “Lucky for me, I’ve come armed with my favorite southern remedy.” He shakes a leather wineskin over his head, high enough for Jon to see.

Jon rolls his eyes but rises to join Tyrion on the log’s other side. “Stay,” he tells Ghost. The wolf cocks his head but does as bid.

Tucking himself into his furs, Jon rubs hands together and plants himself next to Tyrion. He feels his uncle’s eyes on him; a calm, noting gaze. Uncle Benjen does not care for the Lannisters, especially this one. Jon shares his uncle’s resentment for Tyrion’s jokes about the Black, but his unease lingers after the day's events. Two new fellows, pulled from nearby prisons and untied before Jon’s eyes…

Jon glowers at Tyrion. “Don’t you ever quit drinking?”

“It is a cold world we live in, Jon Snow.” Tyrion’s accent drags unbearably when he philosophizes and when he drinks. Little as Jon knows the man, this seems to be always. “A cold world is best faced with a warm belly.” He takes a long drink, then offers the wineskin to Jon.

Heated as Jon is from his earlier imbibing, he allows himself a sip. Tyrion’s wine has an earthier taste than those of Winterfell. Jon never much enjoyed the spirits of the North, too sweet for his taste. Jon continued to sample them only to draw Rickon, Bran, and Arya’s laughs at his disgust. Will he see them again, he wonders.

Jon thinks of Bran's condition, and his chest aches.

“They say you don’t sleep much,” Jon says, handing the wineskin back.

“Do they? Who could have guessed that House Stark would be so concerned with my bed.” Tyrion’s looks are aggravating, teasing, sharp. He makes Jon feel unsteady.

“They say you’re always readin’ or drunk,” Jon mutters. “Or both. And they say-”

“Mm yes, bastard, tell me what else they say about me.” Tyrion’s eyes are light with his same knowing humor.

“They say you’re a cheat and a pervert,” Jon grumbles. “A curse on your family’s name.” Tyrion’s expression turns more pensive. Jon glances over his shoulder, but not even Uncle Benjen turns in their direction.

“And what do you think, boy? Do I live up to your bedtime stories?”

Jon is not accustomed to this much attention. It makes him angry and uncomfortable. He thinks of returning to his bedding without a word back to the little Lord Lannister. But retreat would make Jon a coward, and he is no coward, young and foolish as Tyrion thinks he is.

Jon snatches Tyrion’s wineskin and drinks from it greedily. He expects offense on the dwarf’s face but finds only a raised brow and slight tip of his mouth.

Jon wipes drink from his lips and makes to hand it back, but Tyrion raises a hand to stop him. “You’re clearly in need,” he says. “Besides,” Tyrion reaches under his furs. A second wineskin reveals itself, full to the top by the hearty gurgle of its sack. “A man must always come prepared,” he says.

Jon's tension becomes a quiet laugh whistled through his teeth. They sit side by side, the bastard of Winterfell and the dwarf of Casterly Rock, trading sips of wine in the cold.

A rustling of Tyrion’s blanket draws Jon’s attention. His furs tent up and back with a knead of arms. “What are you doing?” Jon asks.

“Do you remember when you first learned to ride?”

Tyrion seems to have a habit of making points in riddles. Jon sighs but plays along. “I was young. Four or five maybe when I was first led around the stables at Winterfell.”

“And the most difficult part of riding in those early years?” Tyrion continues without forcing him to guess. “Size, Snow. Mastering the movement of a horse with only a fraction of its height.”

Curiosity turns to understanding. “Your legs,” Jon says.

“Smart boy.” Again, the furs move. A chuckle closely follows Tyrion’s flinch. “Not the story of my bed your wet nurse told you about, I’ll bet.”

“I’m not a child,” Jon snaps, and he follows with a drink from what is now his wineskin. Mid-swallow, it hits him how immature this all seems. Drinking heartily to prove his age from a spirit that was gifted to him. Another beggar blessed by the wealth of a Lannister.

“You wear your wine well, Snow.” Tyrion does not pause long enough for Jon to ask what he means. “Do reminders of your youth offend you? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You don’t like to be called a bastard, which you are. And you don’t like to be called a boy, which you also are.”

“You don’t get to discredit me, dwarf, just ‘cause you got money and time on your side.”

“Discredit you? Is that what you think I’m doing?” Tyrion looks at Jon too long. The wine has begun to show on his face, much as Jon can feel it warming his own. Which is winning, the night’s cold or the wine? No doubt a layer of frost will blanket them by morning.

“You have your life ahead of you,” Tyrion points out. “Yet you’ve chosen the noble order of the Night’s Watch for your future.”

“Yes,” Jon grumbles, “I know you don’t believe in snarks and grumkins and all that. I’m still going.” Jon puts his heart into the sentiment, reaching for the vigor he still had when they left Winterfell. The Night’s Watch is Jon’s purpose, no matter what he saw today. There is honor in it, and it will give Jon’s life meaning. At the Wall, even a bastard can serve. Even a bastard can belong.

Jon cannot know what Tyrion sees in his face. Whatever it is turns Tyrion’s gaze softer. “It’s true,” Tyrion says. “I don’t believe in those things. But I believe in bravery and purpose. If you find both in the Black, Snow, then you’ve followed the path meant for you.”

Jon squints at him - the quirk to his smile and how the dying flames turn his hair to spun gold. “But?” he prompts, when Tyrion takes too long to speak on.

Tyrion’s mouth curls higher. “But...you are about to swear away freedoms you don’t even understand yet. This can still be your call one year from now, or five. It’s your choice though, of course.”

Jon huffs. “You sound like my uncle.”

Tyrion laughs. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll love that.” Even Jon must smile.

The web of branches above their heads begins to blur in Jon’s eyes. Jon does not mind. He does not want to think about snarks and goblins, rapists and thieves, his father and a mother he may never know. “So,” Jon mumbles. “You planning to tell me about the freedoms I’m giving up?”

He has the brief satisfaction of Tyrion’s genuine surprise - parted lips and a raised brow. “You did that well enough yourself when you spoke of my late night activities, but...” Tyrion’s expression turns sharp as shattered glass. “Were you hoping I would describe those freedoms in more lavish detail?”

Jon’s heart dips from chest to stomach. “Shut up,” he snarls, and Tyrion grins. Jon feels unbearably warm. He turns his discomfort on the movement beneath Tyrion's furs. “And quit doing that.”

“The pain persists as must I, alas.” Tyrion swings his head to the side, a dangerous twinkle in his eyes. “Was that an offer of assistance with my legs, Snow? Or merely an observation of my sad state?”

Jon’s mouth goes dry. He gulps from his wineskin and tries to ignore the sensation swelling through his chest. Jon thinks of his hands on Tyrion’s meager thighs, the strangeness of soothing limbs no larger than a child’s. The thought is disturbing, yet Jon still looks, a stutter in his fingers.

“Ah.” Tyrion watches him closely. “I’ve offended you again, I see.”

“No.” Jon freezes as soon as the word leaves his lips, one second too late in realizing exactly what he has admitted to.

Tyrion realizes it too, or he knew from the start. His smile is agreeable as he withdraws hands from his own lap. “In that case,” he breezes, ”I humbly accept your offer.”

“Ass,” Jon seethes. Would he be so bold without the wine loosening his tongue? Tyrion only hums at the sentiment and invites Jon to him with half-lidded eyes.

Jon's movements are sluggish and a tick off-balance. He has been drunk before, raised as he was with Robb and Theon's goading. Jon did not like the feeling much, and not only for how ill he was the next morning. 

This, though, is softer than those foolish childhood nights, a clumsiness of movements that are usually more sure. But Jon is fully aware, maybe too much for his liking.

The blanket across Tyrion’s lap remains. “Aren’t you going to move that?” Jon asks.

Tyrion smiles. “Forgive me,” he says. “I didn’t want to make assumptions about your level of comfort in such situations.” Jon vibrates with anger.

His dark eyes follow the peel of Tyrion’s furs, two stumped legs exposed. His slacks are black, thighs spread wide enough for a pair of hands. Looking at him, Jon feels a stab of guilt for his temper. There is pity in what Tyrion is, what he must go through for being born as he was.

The thought shakes quickly from Jon’s head. Tyrion Lannister does not want or need Jon’s pity any more than Jon wants or needs his.

Jon cups hands above Tyrion’s knees, fingers sloped down his legs. The limbs feel strange, braced so easily in his hands. Jon kneads forward, riding Tyrion’s trousers from knee to pelvis.

Tyrion makes a short sound, too sudden to be in jest. Jon freezes. “What? Is that not right?”

“Maybe,” Tyrion’s teeth fence in discomfort, “a bit less pressure, Snow. You’re a strong lad.”

“Sorry,” Jon mumbles. He is careful with his next touch, keeping his pressure mild. Jon watches Tyrion’s face closely - slows at a wince, and continues when Tyrion closes his eyes. Tyrion is a whole different character with his piercing stare hidden. Jon marvels at how easily Tyrion’s thighs fit in his palms.

“You wish to mock me, boy?” A smile plays on Tyrion’s lips. “Out with it.”

“No, m’lord,” Jon says. The title, meant in jest, comes out quieter than intended. Tyrion opens one eye to gauge him, a world of knowledge behind the gaze. Jon sits straight under his scrutiny, forcing his face still.

“I see,” Tyrion says. He spreads his legs wider and pats the open part between them. “You’ll be more comfortable from here.”

Jon’s chest swells full enough to burst. “I’m not one of your whores,” he blurts.

Tyrion looks as surprised as Jon by the outburst. Shockingly, he does not laugh. “You, Jon Snow,” he says, “certainly are not.” He pats the space between his knees again.

With a huff to cover his nervousness, Jon complies. Tyrion’s boots wedge against his sides. Resituated, Jon returns his hands to Tyrion’s legs. The fabric is warm where Jon already touched.

“Doesn’t it hurt?” Jon asks, taking in the stretch of Tyrion’s legs around him.

“A momentary setback,” Tyrion says. He guides Jon’s hands back to his thighs, fingers for a moment laced through Jon’s. It is a touch more intimate than Jon has known from anyone other than family. The heat on his face may no longer have a thing to do with the wine.

Tyrion must read Jon’s hesitation. “Very gracious of you, Snow.” He closes his eyes and sighs as Jon works. Jon’s gut warms like a cauldron come to boil. He shifts, and Tyrion’s legs twitch under his hands.

Jon traces thumbs along his trouser seams. Tyrion hums like the contented purr of a cat, and Jon chews on his lip. “You’re quite good at this,” Tyrion remarks, smiling. “If you have any second thoughts about taking the Black, surely - mm, I could find a place for you in King’s Landing.”

Jon snorts. “What the hell would I do down there? Rub your legs for you?”

“And other things.” Tyrion’s mouth ticks higher. “I would pay you quite well, of course.”

“Like one of your whores after all,” Jon mutters. Salted as his tone is, he is too enthralled by his current position for the anger to stick. Tyrion’s thighs are so slight in his hands, and the little lord is so warm through his clothes.

“My blanket,” Tyrion offers, grabbing the heap of furs beside him. “Help yourself. It’s awfully cold out.”

“What do you mean?” Jon does not understand until Tyrion makes to sling the furs around Jon’s shoulders. Scoffing, Jon still accepts, draping the blanket over his back. It falls about him like a cloak, and Tyrion by proxy. Tyrion huffs his approval and again closes his eyes.

His face is too still. “What?” Jon asks.

Tyrion smiles. “I was thinking-”

“Well, stop.”

“Mm. It’s hit me just how much you're sacrificing when we reach the Wall. A shame, really.” Tyrion pauses, a grimace gripping his jaw. His waist rises and falls as he shifts to get more comfortable. With Tyrion’s eyes closed, Jon stares, unabashed. “If you were so inclined, I could…”

Jon does not follow until small hands set on either side of his waist. He jumps at the touch, unexpected sensation clamping in him like a closed fist. Jon’s throat tightens, and his hands dig into Tyrion’s thighs. “I...I don’t think I want that,” Jon says.

Tyrion makes a thoughtful sound. His hands immediately leave Jon’s hips. “No interest, or too much?”

For a man who speaks so often in riddles, the question is mortifyingly blunt. Jon strains past the wild throb in his chest. “Too much,” he mumbles.

“Ah.” Jon waits on Tyrion’s mockery or disappointment, but Tyrion’s face is only soft with curiosity. He may be a half-man, but he is still a filthy rich Lannister, and he has seen more of this land than Jon has ever dreamed of. What is it about Jon that keeps drawing Tyrion’s gaze?

Jon startles at Tyrion’s hands around his wrists. “Too much?” Tyrion asks.

Jon shakes his head, blowing out a breath because he does not trust his voice. He is too aware of the furs draped around him. They smell of Tyrion, spiced with power, money, wisdom, and something. A thing Jon likes.

Tyrion tilts his head. “I won’t say no to that either, you know.”

Jon realizes his eyes have fixed to Tyrion’s mouth. It is an odd shape - narrow lines and softness. All the better to speak at will, clever lips a vessel to an even smarter tongue.

Jon has kissed only one other. A shy thing out by the stables. Jon kissed her and caressed her strawberry hair and-

This is nothing like that. A sly lick forces Jon’s clumsy mouth open. Tyrion bites at his lips, working him wide. It is a shock to be tasted so completely. Jon’s balance falters, and he sinks into Tyrion’s chest. Slight fingers tangle in Jon’s hair. “Well done, boy,” Tyrion murmurs.

Jon kisses Tyrion until his mouth stings for reprieve. His brow rests on Tyrion’s, dark curls against gold. “My offer stands, Snow, if you change your mind about the Wall,” Tyrion says.

Jon swallows, his head is spinning. But in this, he is still certain. “I won’t,” he whispers.

Tyrion’s sigh says he is not surprised. He bumps his nose against Jon’s in jest. “In that case...” He plucks Jon’s lip between his own. Jon gasps, and Tyrion chuckles his approval.

This is the first time, Jon realizes, that he can remember setting aside his future dreams, even for one night. It is rare for a bastard’s present to be exactly what he wants.

*The End*


End file.
